Right Side Up
by NaijaChiqa
Summary: One letter changes two lives. Sandy and Nana. Sentence Challenge


I own nothing

**--------**

**Right Side Up**   
  
You go through the letters of acceptance on your bed; Yale, Harvard, Cornell, Pace. Impressive, right? Sure. But not to you. You look at the calendar one more time. May 27. The twenty-seventh day of May. For some reason, everything arrived early. That is, all but the one you really want.   
  
You've done everything by the book. Graduated Magna Cum Laude, participated in so many extra curricular activities you didn't have anything resembling a social life; were an activist for civil rights; worked on the school paper; even helped found a now thriving charity organization for the homeless. You worked tirelessly because you had one goal in mind: Berkeley. You've never been able to explain your reasons because you're unable to put your finger on it, but all you know is it feels right. When asked, you mention their reputation, the weather, the political scene, but truth is, you just want to be there. And the anxiety is killing you. Your watch indicates that three minutes have passed. Where the hell is your letter?  
  
You wish you don't have to wait for your mother, but the local ruffians won't let you. For some reason, they don't understand that objects put in the mailboxes placed in front of houses they don't own are off limits. The dimwits not only vandalize, but sometimes run off with its contents. And you can't risk that. Not this time.  
  
You're tired from working at the internship your Uncle Donny got you. He'd claimed it wouldn't be taxing. "A way to earn money and relax before you start Law School," he'd said warmly. What a crock! They work you like a dog, keep you running around, delivering packages, making beverages, finding people... grunt work, basically. "I'm a college graduate," you protest, knowing that you are far too good. They scoff and laugh. "The secretary has an MBA," they reply.  
  
You stretch because your back hurts. If only you could afford a massage. It's been another day of lifting boxes and you've got blisters the size of small countries. You realize it's a little late to find another summer job even though you know you can because your credentials are solid. You can't offend your uncle or worse still, your bosses because you will need the connections in the future. Not that they would care - you are merely a peon in the sea of underpaid and overworked nonentities tolerating injustices just to obtain that sacred recommendation letter.  
  
You put your hands together and pull. Your muscles expand and loosen. Then you feel a familiar ache in your belly. The bastards won't even let you have a good, filling lunch. By the time you return from the only bistro you can afford, it's already time to get back to the boring, thankless work, so you find yourself eating as you sprint across town. And they claim walking in Manhattan is fun. You hear a squeak -you realize your mother is home. The house was built in the eighteenth century but the boards look even a century older. They are numerous shades of brown and so loose that as child, you were scared to run over them because their collapse might have landed you -if rumors were to believed- in an ancient grave. And you didn't need to find out for yourself.  
  
As the cries of the overextended stairs intensify, your heart races. This could be it -she might have it with her. You sit still and wait. You want to run and ask, but you can't. "Keep your cool in all situations" is her mantra. So you pretend.   
  
You see the doorknob twist and you're rendered mute. She walks in with a solemn look and hands the long thin object to you. You should hug her and ask her how her day went, but you don't; that'll come later. She's so tired from dealing with irresponsible and thoughtless people all day that she needs a few minutes to unwind.  
  
You take it from her and wait for her departure. Then you look in your hand and stare. Boalt Hall, School of Law, it reads. You put it on the bed and wonder aloud. "The contents don't really matter, do they? It's not that important in the larger scheme of things, right? I don't have to get in, after all, I can attend Yale, Harvard, Cornell or Pace, right?"   
  
You psyche yourself up, hoping you can find a way to cope if the wrong words have been typed in neat courier 11 font. You know it's futile but you try it anyway. You say more hopeful words then exhale. As you pick up the white envelope, you notice your hand tremble. You're so daft, you chide yourself. It's only a letter, dammit! You hold it up against the bulb hanging from the ceiling. You can see the contrast of dark and light.  
  
You pull and prod till the words become legible. No matter how hard you squint, you can only make out your name. You are ashamed at your silliness, take another deep breath, then say a short prayer to The Virgin Mary. You realize you are Jewish and should not be praying to her, but remember that it seems to work for Tony D'Tello from Student Council so it can't hurt.  
  
Carefully, as if handling the most fragile and valuable of objects, you tear it open. You pull out the off-white sheet and gaze at the black letters. Your pupils dilate as you digest the words.  
  
-------  
  
You're pacing your room. You know you should be resting but you can't. How can you after receiving that letter? You almost wish you didn't go to the post office today. You should have gone to the store like you planned and bought a much needed box of cereal. But you shrug because you know you'd have only been delaying the inevitable. It's better this way, you acknowledge.  
  
The floorboards are creaking again. When you'd first moved in, you'd sworn to get them replaced as you recognized they were a hazard, but surprisingly, they turned out to be stronger than they looked and now, you find the familiar sounds quite comforting - they provide a little bit of consistency in the chaos you term your life.  
  
You hear two faint knocks on your door. You bite your lips in anticipation and wonder if it's wishful thinking on his part that you don't hear them.  
  
You lean against your closet. "Come in," you bark.  
  
His wide grin is the first thing you see. You already know what's coming next.  
  
"Mama, I got in," he shrieks with exuberance. He's a man now - tall and strong, smart with a sharp wit - an early version of his father. But he's still your little boy because he still carries that smile; the first one you ever saw when you lifted him up at four weeks; the one he flashed you as a teen when he wanted to sweet talk you into something he knew you'd disagree with; the one that comforts and keeps you sane on those days you just want to pack it in and surrender because you are sick of the world being a cold, heartless, lonely place.   
  
You pull him into a warm embrace. Your biggest nightmare has finally become reality. But you can't say that to him. Not to your little man-boy because it also means that his biggest dream has come true, and you're grateful to witness such a monumental event in his life.   
  
"So you're going?" You ask pointlessly.   
  
"Yes, Mom," he says, jumping a little. The floorboards squeal. You glance at them and pray they don't decide they've celebrated enough and opt to leave.   
  
You sit on your bed and flex your tired feet.   
  
"I thought you said you were thinking of going somewhere closer," you remind him. It's the glimmer of hope you've clung to these past months.  
  
He nods. "But that's before I knew I was accepted. Mom, I'm going to Berkeley!"  
  
You smile, trying to share in his joy, but you can't; you're his Mom and Mothers worry -it's just a thing you do.  
  
"Isn't California expensive?"  
  
"It is, but," he says pointing to a line on his letter, "I'm getting a full scholarship! Mama, this is going to be so great."  
  
"Remind me again, Sandy: what's wrong with Yale?"  
  
He frowns. "Yale's Yale. It's great but it's not Berkeley, Mom."  
  
"What's so special about Berkeley? All they have are hippies and people protesting all day." You know you sound infantile, but you don't care - your baby is trying to leave you.   
  
His knowing smile conveys he's on to you. He walks a few steps, sits by you and puts his arm around your shoulders. "Exactly, Mom. They are very aware and that's another reason I want to go there. Isn't that how you raised me?"  
  
You nod. He's exactly right. For a split second, you regret teaching your son to think for himself.   
  
"Women's Rights, Civil Rights -"  
  
"Gay Rights," you cut in.  
  
He nods.  
  
"That isn't why you're going, right?" It's been a while since he's introduced you to a girlfriend and sometimes you find yourself wondering.   
  
He's amused. "No, that's not why."  
  
"You know you can tell me if it is, I wouldn't mind - I am not one of those Republicans," you remind him.   
  
He's laughing openly. "I know Mom. I promise you that isn't it. I just love the school."  
  
"But you'll be so far away," you protest.  
  
He reaches across and tugs your shirt. "It's time to cut the apron strings," he teases. "Besides, I won't really be that far away and I'll write you every week."  
  
"Except during your midterms. Don't write during your midterms."  
  
"Okay Mom." He looks at his watch. "I need to call Uncle Donny. He's been calling every other day for an update. He'll be so glad. "  
  
You sigh and remember why you hate your pesky brother-in-law.   
  
He reaches across and gives you a hug. "Mama, don't look so upset, I'm still here, I haven't left."   
  
You nod and watch him leave. Who are you trying to kid? He might still be around but you know fully well that he left the minute that letter touched his fingers.


End file.
